


A Lesson in Tightropes

by Wildgoosery



Series: I'm With the Band [12]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Bondage and Discipline, Breathplay, Dirty Talk, Literally stepped on, M/M, Memory Loss, Panic Attacks, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 15:28:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13767066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wildgoosery/pseuds/Wildgoosery
Summary: Taako hits a wall he can’t see or explain. Brad is blindsided on multiple fronts.





	A Lesson in Tightropes

Brad enjoys hurting Taako. He enjoys the sounds that Taako makes, gasps and moans and curses and rare cries of genuine startlement. He enjoys the purpling ovals left by his fingertips, the half-moon pattern of his teeth on coppery skin, the long red lines of scratches. 

But importantly -- _vitally_ \-- he enjoys these things because Taako wants them from him.

Tonight that want is desperate, if the hitch in Taako's breath is any indication. He's lying on his back on the floor of Brad's apartment, naked and already bleeding from a split in his lower lip. Brad has belted thick leather cuffs onto both of his wrists and run the chain between them around the leg of the desk. And Taako strains against them, now, as Brad looms over him, bare feet planted to either side of his narrow chest.

"A full hour late," Brad rumbles. "What _could_ you have been thinking?"

The chain rattles as Taako arches beneath him. "I fucking _told_ you practice ran over, I can't just ditch whenever you want me to-"

Taako's voice is cut off as Brad shifts his weight to one side and then carefully, precisely, steps on Taako's throat. "Your scheduling problems are just that," Brad says. "Yours."

When Brad lifts his foot, unhurried, Taako draws a gulping breath. Rasps, "Here now, aren't I?"

"Mm." Brad pushes his big toe under the point of Taako's chin, forcing it up and back. Thinning Taako's air without cutting it off entirely. "I should probably send you home, since you so obviously have better things to do."

"No way you're kicking me out with a hard on like that," Taako says, sandpaper rough from the angle of his neck. Somehow managing to smirk even now.

Brad pushes his chin a hair further. "Are you sure?"

"You wanna fuck me so bad," Taako hisses. "I bet you wanna do it right here on the floor. Fuckin bend me in half with my arms up like this, huh? Get my legs on your shoulders and-"

Brad's foot shifts from chin to cheek, the ball of it shoving over and down; pressing one side of Taako's face to the floor. "Enough of that, pet," he says, as dry as he can with that image fresh in the front of his mind. "That's not what I want from your mouth tonight."

What he wants has, by necessity, shifted. A thick candle of undyed beeswax waits in a holder on Brad's desk, burning cheerfully, the remnant of his plans for the evening before Taako's unexpected tardiness. Still useful, although the teasing drips he'd imagined are now far too gentle. 

There are expectations at play here. Responsibilities, as ridiculous as it might be to think of them as such. Taako has broken the rules. Taako is unapologetic. And so.

Brad picks the candle up in one hand and Taako tracks its movement, the red flicker of flame reflected in eyes gone very wide. Brad wonders how far the wax will splatter when poured from standing height. 

"But first," he rumbles, "there's the matter of your tally." 

Taako's eyes follow the candle as Brad holds it out in front of him, arm extended; as he begins to tip it over, one molasses degree at a time. 

Taako's tongue darts out to wet his lips. "What're you..."

The pool of melted wax flows and brims and falls in a generous stream; hits the center of Taako's chest; splashes as far as his chin, his navel.

Taako yells, very loudly, the moment it hits his skin. Yells in a way that Brad has never heard before, a raw ragged thing that he only half-shapes into words. "Fuck!" His bare feet squeak as they scramble for purchase, the chain crashing against the wooden leg of the desk. "Fuck fuck fuck!!"

Brad's heart thunders as he steps back, extinguishes the candle with thumb and forefinger and then sets it on a shelf out of Taako's line of sight.

Taako spits a word that sounds like old bones and the leather cuffs distort, abruptly taffy-soft, stretching and breaking as he pulls his wrists free and pushes himself up in a clumsy rush. Sits with his legs splayed out and his face in his hands, his ears low and flat, and mumbles curses between each too-shallow breath.

Taako is not Brad's first submissive, not at all, and Brad knows that sometimes this happens; has had it happen, more than once, no matter how careful he is. Not often, not recently, but still the old patterns are there when he reaches for them, still mercifully automatic while the rest of him pores through his last few minutes of memory; sifts for the wrong turn, the misstep. 

He stands very still. Says, quietly, "May I speak?"

"Jesus," Taako says, voice muffled by his palms. "Jesus fucking hell on a hotplate holy shit." A deeper breath that shudders on the way out. "Sure."

"What do you need?" Brad asks. As softly as he can while being certain Taako will hear him.

Taako pushes his hands back through his hair, sweat-damp wisps of it between his fingers. Doesn't look up. Mumbles, "'M cold."

Brad crosses his apartment to the bathroom, measured barefoot strides, and fetches the threadbare robe that hangs on a hook just inside the door -- quilted maroon silk embroidered with tawny leaves. Returns to where Taako is sitting on the floor beside his desk and squats down a careful distance away. 

Brad holds the robe out for Taako to see. "Can I put this over you?"

"Mm." 

"I'm going to cast Calm Emotions," Brad says as he drapes the robe across Taako's shoulders. And when Taako doesn't object, he sits back on his heels and hums the spell, and watches what he can see of Taako's face for signs of having gone further awry.

The spell is one of smoothing, soothing; of flow and current, the melody a gentle loop that folds back on itself. And through the spell Brad can feel the shape of what it's gradually wearing away -- all the sharp panicked corners of Taako's fear, of his confusion. His embarrassment at both. 

Taako's breathing deepens and slows. His fists unclench from handfuls of hair. He reaches down to peel the sheet of cooled wax away from his chest and drop it on the floor. Then he clumsily works his hands through the arms of the robe, folds the edges across himself and ties the belt. Groans and rubs his face, the heels of his palms pressed against his eyes. "Thanks," he mumbles. Drops his hands into his lap, sighs and looks up. Wet-faced and exhausted and pale, but something like normal again. Like himself as he says, "Jesus hell."

"I'm going to get you a glass of water," Brad says, and stands to do so.

He emerges from his galley kitchenette to find that Taako's moved from the floor to sit on his bed, back against the headboard and legs tucked under the quilt. Absolutely drowning in maroon silk. There's a twist in Brad's stomach as he recalls, belatedly, that his grandfather sewed this robe; that his grandmother embroidered it by hand. That Taako is bundled in family, in history -- a reminder of feather beds in drafty attics and wood stoves in winter.

Brad swallows through the tightness in his throat and sets the glass on the nightstand. "We'll need to discuss what happened," he says. "When you're ready."

“Hmm.” Taako looks down at his fingers, all twisted up in the hem of the robe. "Yeah, listen, ah...about that...”

Brad sighs. “Pet.”

“I’m thinkin maybe like, _real_ hard pass? On the talk. About this.”

"If you want to continue with our arrangement,” Brad says, firm, “I'll need to know what isn't allowed."

A thin laugh. “Hot wax, apparently.”

“Taako.”

"Look, I don't know!" Taako snaps. "I don't know, it's..." He tilts his head back with a soft thunk. "Fuck this is really unpleasant. It's _really_ bad."

Worry pulls at the corners of Brad's mouth. "The spell should have-"

Taako waves this off, still looking at the ceiling. "It's not panic, it's..." He blows out a long breath. "Listen, I'm trying to think about why I lost my shit like that, and it's just....a blank space. Like a hole. Or like...like noise." He winces and shakes his head, rocking the back of his skull on the headboard. "I can't."

This brittle frustration is somehow harder to watch than the panic attack itself. More so because Brad hasn’t any idea what to do -- what’s appropriate for or desired of a man in his position. Friendly, but not a friend. A partner in sex, but not a lover.

Ah, but. 

He’s Taako’s Dominant, regardless of his promise to never say so out loud. And _that_ role he understands perfectly well.

Brad forces his shoulders to lower. Smooths his expression. Asks, quietly, "When did you begin to feel uncomfortable?"

Taako reaches for the water and sips it while he considers. "When I saw the candle," he says, finally. "I think. Yeah. When I knew you were...that you'd do something with fire. Like...like in a sex way." He shudders and sets the glass down again. "Yeah."

"So," Brad says. "No flames."

"No. No, nothing that burns. Nothing that feels like..." An uneven intake of breath, arms folding over his chest. Hands tucked away in too-long sleeves. "No fire, no fire-adjacent shit, just a big ol' _nope_ to that whole deal." He glances over at where Brad stands beside the bed, the first time he's looked at Brad directly since their evening derailed. "You can sit."

Brad moves to perch on the edge of the mattress, down by Taako's feet, and Taako clicks his tongue in irritation. Says, "Don't be stupid," and holds up the edge of the quilt to one side of him, a clear invitation.

Still dressed in slacks and work shirt, belt and tie, Brad slips under the covers. And as soon as he's settled, Taako's body -- warm and familiar and smelling of old silk -- presses up against him. 

Brad lifts a hand; hesitates. Asks, "May I touch you?"

"Mm," Taako murmurs. Relaxes into the circle of Brad's arm as a hand comes up to stroke his hair.

“I’m sorry,” Brad says.

“You didn’t know.”

“I didn’t,” Brad agrees. “Now I do. It won’t happen again.”

A few taut beats of silence. Then, low and frustrated, “Shit.”

“Mmm?”

“I mean, listen...” Taako blows out a sigh. “I know I fucked up this time, but-”

“Pet, I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about.”

“The word,” Taako mumbles. “I didn’t...I forgot to say it.”

The knot in Brad’s stomach winds even tighter. “Taako. You..” He swallows. “If I’m performing my role correctly, you shouldn’t have to.”

A breathy chuckle. “Your ‘role’?”

“Certain individuals have requested I not use certain terms, if you’ll recall.”

“You’re the fucking worst,” Taako mutters, although his tone is as close to affectionate as it ever gets.

“Mmm.” Brad gently drags his nails along Taako’s scalp, and a low purr thrums to life in Taako’s throat. "You'll feel better if you sleep, pet. We can have dinner later. Whatever you like."

Taako burrows in closer, his cheek pressed to Brad's shirt. The same cheek that Brad had stepped on less than a half an hour ago, as Brad cannot help but recall. And Taako murmurs, as if privy to this, "'M still kinda horny."

Already half-hard again, cheeks hot with embarrassment at his own susceptibility, Brad manages a stiff, "Sleep first. Then see how you feel."

“Mmmmmmm.” A drowsy smirk. "I feel like you're probably gonna wake up with your dick in my mouth."

"We'll see," Brad says, his hand still smoothing stray wisps of pale hair.

"Mmm."

Brad kisses Taako's forehead, a small surrender. Balances this out by saying, "I can't believe you ruined my favorite cuffs."

"I'll fix ‘em," Taako murmurs. "Later."

"You had better," Brad says. 

He waits for a smart remark, the volley returned. And when none comes, he shifts just far enough to look at Taako's face. 

Eyes closed. Lips slightly parted. A damp spot already forming where his cheek is squashed against the front of Brad's shirt. “Ridiculous creature,” Brad murmurs. Settles back against the headboard and thumbs the swell of Taako’s chin, the curve of his bottom lip. His scent is off, sour with anxiety and adrenaline, and Brad doubts there will be any sex tonight; doesn’t want there to be, really, in the wake of real fear. 

That’s fine. There’ll be other nights, other chances. Taako’s body is a warm relaxed weight against Brad’s side. They’ll take a bath later, maybe. Wash off the anxious sweat, the blood. Order delivery from the commissary. Probably sleep here, together. It’s a Friday night. They have a routine.

They’ve been doing this for months, “appointments” in his office bleeding into evenings in this apartment, sex becoming dinner becoming a morning in bed, a weekend. Idle hours whiled away on the couch, entire days alone in each other’s company -- far more than Brad has spent with any one person in a very long time. 

And yet. Taako is essentially a stranger. A coworker, and not a close one. Brad knows hardly anything about Taako’s life beyond what’s in his file; has no idea what it is about fire, about candles, that might have caused such a strong reaction, and no framework for asking more than he already has.

He won’t ask. Won’t linger on the whys of things, only accept the boundaries described to him and stay carefully, perfectly within them. Won’t search for cracks in the armor of Taako’s remove, won’t inquire after his family, won’t invite him along on trips home to the Gray Hills. That isn’t what they’re doing here. That isn’t what Taako wants from him.

If he’s honest, Brad isn’t entirely sure what they _are_ doing -- what this _is_. 

But he knows what it isn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the entire IWTB team, as always, for their help with this! And thanks to Cherry for talking about dynamics of consent and safewords with me on Twitter in a way that helped me tweak an earlier draft to be much much better.
> 
> Title is from [Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xfhOhJGleGk), my gently melancholy gay anthem of choice since 2001.
> 
> [@Wildgoosery](https://twitter.com/wildgoosery)


End file.
